


save your love for someone like me

by verdent



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Minor Violence, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25077541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdent/pseuds/verdent
Summary: in the truest fashion of jet rocks, it takes ten years to realize she is in love and five minutes to get engaged(title from susie save your love by allie x and mitski)
Relationships: Primsy Coldbottle/Jet Rocks
Comments: 12
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

It all starts when the Duchess Coldbottle with a formal courtesy introduces herself. She stands generous, sheepish and gentle in a room brimmed, overflowing with cowardice and deceit tucked swiftly under every coat tail, behind every wry smile, and she commands Jet’s attention as though she were the greatest soldier ever lived to walk so bravely a lamb among the fray. Primsy passes the milk silk between them, and Jet doesn’t understand the way her heart jumps as she smiles and sinks as she is called away from her and buries itself in the pit of her abdomen as she hears the name Stilton Cordeau through the murmurs in the crowd. It does not stop her from holding the embroidery to the light of her bedside lamp in the late hours after the festivities, running her fingers down the fine threads where they were carefully laid, and falling asleep with it tucked into the heat of her chest.

The next day Jet vows never to marry.

Then Hell is in the world around them, a bastard with a duchess bleeding heavily in her arms abord a sinking ship under siege. Primsy fights the pain, blinking in and out of consciousness in attempts to show her strength, to murmur a thank you as Stilton sinks damned to the roiling yogurt shoals beneath them. If Jet Rocks painted across the stormy night sky is to be the last thing she sees, eyes blending with the stars, hair dampened sticking around her face in a mix of rain and blood and tears, Primsy hopes only to make it the clearest image ever entered into her mind. She falls asleep at peace in Jet’s arms, unsure if she will ever awaken again.  
She does with a rage and a love burnt into her heart.

As the Rocks family sails away at the mouth of the Cola River, Primsy considers sending a prayer out to the great Bulb above for them. Breath catching with the newly bandaged gash in her side she determines that no one would listen, and no one would respond. Annabelle sends her back to bed. In the weeks that she heals there is no correspondence, silence far more agonizing than piecing herself back together.

Achingly slow do the rumors reach the Dairy Islands, the frantic whispers of a lawful queen, and the name Saccharina Frostwhip tires quickly to Primsy’s ears. In the words of all around she is their savior, a political upstart who will bring sweeping change to the nation of Candia and save the Dairy Islands from the horrors of war against the Concord they had pledged themselves to, and while she is all those things, Primsy waits with consuming dread, paces in her quarters after dark, mind wandering through the endless drone of meetings, sending letter after unanswered letter to the absent Rocks family until she cannot take it anymore.

“Are we just going to move on as if they don’t exist? Is that who we are? Are we all going to sit around and pretend they did nothing for us? Hungry One take us if that’s how we treat our allies!” They saved my life. 

She does not stay for the stunned silence of the crowd, fury bubbling up in her in blinding rage as she recalls Jet selfless atop the mast and weeps before she makes it through the threshold of her quarters. Where is she? Alone? Cast out? Dead?

Primsy doesn’t attend supper that evening.

The morning comes in a fit of tired eyes and heavy chests and a bustling energy that awakes Primsy from the lower levels of the castle. Three ships rest fully stocked in the harbor as she glances out to the shore, and she peaks open the door to her quarters with care, fearful of attendants or ambassadors who may already be lying in wait to scold her for her outburst and undue language in her nightgown. Instead she catches Annabelle rushing past and calls out for her.

“What, what is going on?” 

Her cousin takes her gently by the shoulders.

“We’re going to find them.”

The hug is brisk and soft and gone before any of Primsy’s questions can tumble listless from her thoughts, and Annabelle is off down the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

They find them in a village near the Great Stone Candy Mountains, riding out countless days as the inner workings of title and land are disputed under the newfound monarchy and graciously accept passage to the Dairy Islands to further await their fate. 

Primsy is at the docks hours before they are set to arrive, unable to justify a grandiose ceremony for the now ex-nobles in their political limbo, but lying in wait with one of her finer pink silks and a few of her guards. The harbor is quiet save for the backdrop of the ocean, passersby who would typically wave or call out to her in jovial fashion instead give a wide birth, and she wonders for a moment if it’s in the frantic way she stares out at the sea, unphased by the saltwater mixing with her breath or dampening the lace hem of her gown, hands clawed into the fabric as the waves beat back effortlessly into the sea. 

The minor fleet arrives an hour late, Primsy’s thoughts finding the worst scenarios to dance upon until the Rocks family is in sight with their attendants. Her eyes find Jet immediately, half-carried by her sister as they disembark, limping and sickly in her complexion, wincing with every step but face alight in a smile as she notices Primsy on the docks. Seeing her is enough to lift the leaden weight bored into Primsy’s chest even as their reunion is cut wickedly short by the ushering of the former royal family away from the open air of the docks and the gathering crowd.

Their settlements are arranged, and with the thought of them in her company, Primsy breathes for the first time in many months.

Ruby steals away to the rolling hills with Theobald and Cumulous to continue the work of the Order and research of Lazuli’s texts under the soft request of the new Queen of Candia, waging their own silent war among friends with the sincerest silence of the Dairy Islands in acknowledgement of their alchemical trials. Frequently, Ruby Rocks is reported to be in multiple places at once, in their temporary homestead miles from the castle, then having lunch with her sister, or three floors above in the library of the castle. Villagers talk, but guards and nobles mostly blink until she’s gone again. 

Amethar and Caramelinda fight their own sort of battles, taking up residence in a cottage on the palace grounds. Some days they will sit at opposite ends of the house, barely saying a word. Others report holding each other by the fireplace when the chill of the island takes hold at night, a sort of armistice in the name of all they have endured.  
And Jet, Jet spends the first month in the royal infirmary. She hates it, well, most of the time.

Then there are the times when her father sits with her and tells her stories of her aunts, causing ruckus through Castle Candy in a way that makes her miss home even less, and her mother, knitting by her side as she awakens to the sounds of birdsong through the open window, and Ruby pacing around her room excitedly listing the breakthroughs and curiously detailing the setbacks she faces everyday under Lazuli’s late tutelage.

Then there are the times when Primsy, Regent of House Cheddar, Duchess of Lacramor has dinner at her bedside and stays longer than she should, gently dismissing council members in a way she thinks Jet won’t notice from outside the door before slinking back in and making some bizarre excuse.

Jet doesn’t mind the extra attention.

When she is finally discharged, the clerics call her a miracle, one of the finest representations of the Bulbs mercy they have ever seen.

When Ruby hugs her on her feet for the first time she leans in.

“This wasn’t the Bulb’s doing. This was all you, soldier.” And they laugh into the embrace.

As soon as she finds her footing, she is starved for action, spending days at a time sleeping under the stars at the docks and pestering Manta Ray and Sir Morris Brie to teach her how to sail. Adventure is ripe within her, and she always makes time for afternoon tea. 

It is unpleasantly hot the day Jet teaches Primsy how to spar, the castle sweltering through its stones as Primsy rattles off a list of proposals that make her brow sweat worse than the heat ever could, overwhelmed and full of a worry that has Jet grabbing her by the arm before either can think about where they are going. Even moored, the deck of the Colby rocks low in the water which cools the unrelenting heat billowing around them. Morris and Manta Ray watch from the upper deck in distracted supervision as Jet methodically teaches her how to stand between fits of laughter and overwhelming understanding fall naturally between them. She is clumsy with the blunted blade Jet has acquired, holding it far to hesitant to ever effectively damage an enemy. For some odd reason, as the sun tilts downward in the sky, Jet waits a while longer to correct her.

Jet’s heart beats rapid in her chest the day Primsy’s confidence soars, a pride in her own abilities to convey but mostly a joy residing in the way the Duchess grins back at her over a decimated practice dummy. Weeks pass with a growing frustration set upon the regular disappearance of the Lady Coldbottle, with no efforts made to stop her as she leaves with Jet Rocks towards the harbor in the late afternoon light.

When they spar together, Jet goes easy on her until she doesn’t have to anymore, blunted blade to the side and tumbling of limbs upon the ship, and Primsy is seventeen and laughing in the fading light with the former Princess Jet Rocks and the world in its brief moments of kindness could not be more perfect.


	3. Chapter 3

Months fall away unnoticed between their meetings, and the fate of the Rocks family if finally brought forth to them, reinstated as nobles of House Merengue under Caramelinda’s title with no repercussions now that the whispers in the streets have finally lessened with the mention of Amethar’s first marriage. Still, they are allowed residence at Castle Candy, and under the table not much changes except for the seat of power as they return home. 

Jet and Primsy hug for a long while on the docks before Jet works up the courage to produce the strip of yarn knitted into some vague resemblance of a scarf as her mother had taught her to do, squares of pink and blue and grey for the colder nights on the islands. She considers a moment, telling Primsy about the embroidery tucked in the breast pocket of her armor, behind her locket of the Sweetest Heart but decides against it, returning the promise to write when she can and boarding the ship before she cannot will herself to leave Primsy’s company.

With no one to distract her so often, Primsy steps into the role of leadership with grace and wit and confidence, having garnered the last two from one of her dearest friends.  
By twenty-one, Jet is appointed General, a fine teacher to her troops of former marauders who settle from their rowdy, survivalist dispositions into fine soldiers, and wherever she is her letters are crisply pressed and sealed and delivered to the outpost herself every time because she does not trust the soldiers to wrinkle them in their packs or chip the wax upon the outside. 

When she is twenty-three, she begins them “My dearest, Primsy” forgoing the “friend” as though it does not need to be said with no afterthought once her pen has found its mark. (The next letter she receives begins, “My dearest, Jet” and neither dares to ask the other why.)

Jet carries herself with a slight limp after the incident in Dulcington. She does not like to talk about it because when she talks about it, she then has to think about it, but her side still aches in the mornings with the remnants of the water steel burned forever into the memory of her flesh. Knowing somewhere out there her father feels the same impression, she carries on.

She is almost twenty-four when a javelin finds the spot again, almost unrecognizable with the lesser pain of the regular steel as she thinks in those few moments before the impact of the ground about her father, her mother, her sister, and Primsy off somewhere in the Dairy Islands, bundled up in a scarf of the worst craftmanship in her wardrobe.  
Her mouth twitches in anger as Saccharina honorably discharges her, hand painfully tight around the peppermint bark cane at her side. Jet knows what she is saying but cannot seem to hear the words as they are spoken by her Queen. She does not know how to begin the letter, so Primsy writes her first.

“My dearest, Jet  
I have heard the news.  
The castle is a lonely place these days. It would be an honor to have you visit me in your leave.”

Jet wastes no time booking passage.

Once again it seems it has been far too long as they embrace upon the docks. It hurts a little where Primsy squeezes around her middle, but Jet does not mind being treated without fragility in her arms. Time passes in a strange way when Jet is around Primsy, as though the in between is only a precursor to the winding hours of conversation, indulging on the freedoms of speaking to one another rather than the agonizing wait of a letter to arrive. Her visit is over too soon, a couple weeks gone in an instant, but she sails away with a different gait and a woman who is fond of her company watching her pull from shore.

Primsy has never been in love to what she can define, but this does not stop the incessant conversation of her marrying to pass through the halls of the castle. It is a tiresome notation upon her life as a respected ruler with no suitor who even slightly catches her eye. Jet is the only one who hears her inner concerns every time she is introduced to a potential match. Across the sea in Castle Candy, she laughs openly at Primsy’s depictions, ignoring the piling weight growing in her chest at every mention.

If anyone suspected Jet Rocks would mellow into the diplomatic lifestyle adopts it, they would be distinctly mistaken. She takes a seat next to her mother in the council rooms but regularly ends them standing, aggressive, argumentative, competitive, and damn near the most persuasive one in attendance though Caramelinda would never admit it so bluntly as to discourage such uncouth behavior in professional matters.

Jet always misses fighting, the adrenaline, the poise, how quickly one much work to shift in strategy, soldier to the core as she outlines the battlements of every room she steps into. One of the perks of diplomacy is how often she can excuse herself to the Dairy Islands.

People talk. They always do.

They talk about Jet’s fall more than she would ever care to listen, in conjunction with her effectiveness in court. They talk about Primsy who shines a paragon of the Dairy Islands in her representation of leadership but is terribly picky in terms of marriage partners.

They talk about how often Jet Rocks, diplomat of Candia, stays in the castle, how late it is when she leaves Primsy’s quarters, teacups long empty on the table before them. Speculation rises and circulates but never reaches them, and they do not talk about what they hear.

Jet does not believe she has ever been in love before, but as she walks back to her quarters with the warmth of Primsy’s hand lingering on her own wrapped firm around her cane in the darkness of the castle, she hopes with everything that it is akin to what they have. 

Jet is twenty-eight, official Foreign Advisor to the Dairy Islands and splitting her time evenly between there and Candia. Her and Primsy are blissful, and nothing changes until everything does.

There is a ringing in her ears as Primsy sets the drafted invitation before her, stunned to silence. Suddenly she is eighteen again, watching the Duchess of Lacramor move young and nervous through the vast hall and hearing the name of her would-be husband moments after her heart has soared into her throat unlike anything she has ever experienced. She would vow never to marry and ten years later be seated in front of the graceful, whirlwind of a woman, with a makeshift invitation to her wedding lost on the table in front of her. She is jealous and human and in love before she can play along to the roles they have been assigned.

“Is this what you want?”

There is a ferocity in Jet’s eyes that often runs along the disconcerting vein of confidence when she aims to win her ideas over in the crowded room of court, an intensity that swarms the intimate setting between them.

Primsy fidgets with her hands under the table, trying and failing not to avoid that look that persuades the masses. Jet reaches around the table and grabs one of Primsy’s hands with both of hers.

“Primsy, will this marriage make you happy?”

She meets her gaze now as the severity of Jet’s gaze is cut by the sweetness of her hands over Primsy’s.

“No, I know it won’t, but I have to Jet. I can’t be like Annabelle, like you.” Primsy’s voice breaks with fury and disdain as she speaks, resigning herself to this for the good of her image, for the good of her country, for the good of everything she has been preached about since she was made heir under her cousin’s refusal.

Jet moves around the table in an instant, holding Primsy where she sits and cries a moment into the crook of her dress shirt.

“What if it’s me instead?” She whispers as it dons on her, loud enough to pass between them where she cannot take it back. Primsy looks up at her in confusion and admiration, which always rests in her gaze when her eyes are trained on Jet.

“But you’re, you-”

“The world was different then, but if you said yes, I could never refuse.” For a beat of silence her heart rattled deafening in her ears before Primsy rose from her seat and pressed their lips together in the candlelight, messy and uninformed and perfect. They held their foreheads together in the moments following, years of unspoken yes’s falling between them.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> find me on tumblr @mrtheinsatiable


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